


You're Gonna Lose Things

by ryoku



Category: RWBY
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Violence, sociopathic tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 18:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5675506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryoku/pseuds/ryoku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're gonna lose things," was one of the biggest precepts of his life, and Mercury learned early on that it was generally true.</p>
<p>Major Spoilers for Season 3 Episode 7.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Gonna Lose Things

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Терять что-то](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9234332) by [Rainy_Elliot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainy_Elliot/pseuds/Rainy_Elliot)



"You're gonna lose things," was one of the biggest precepts of his life, and Mercury learned early on that it was generally true, as Marcus slurred out the line at him around an amber bottle, smelling like cheap liquor, the piss he probably slept in, and the grime of cheap inn bed sheets.

 

The real gem of truth behind those slurred lips, was to not get attached to anything, and that lesson started at an early age. They moved from place to place for most of his life. He trailed behind Marcus from hell hole to hell hole and used his childishly round tongue until it was sharp. Marcus promised he'd lose it one day, if he didn't keep quiet, but there was no bite behind those words. Part of Mercury thought Marcus liked the noise, but that didn't save him from back hands that cut and big ugly metal fingers wrapping around delicate, developing vertebrae when he said too much. A mouth is a powerful thing, he learned, but it can get you into trouble. The trick, is timing. That's true of most things, but of running his mouth, it was very important. The more Mercury grew, the easier it was to understand when to keep his mouth shut, and when he could let off a few cracks. Good timing has a kind of finesse, and it's vital.

 

They moved often, and mostly lived with only the smelly clothes on their backs. They rarely stayed in one place for long, but there was a little house, out in the middle of Grimm country, up on a hill, that they actually returned to in a somewhat regular fashion. Maybe once ever year, or two years, or four years. Like how normal people go home for the holidays, only not really annual, and not pleasant. That might have implied that Mercury was attached to the place, but that wasn't true. It was just a run down, dirty little place, where Marcus left locks of hair, and torn out finger nails and teeth, all morbid mementos of people Marcus really enjoyed offing. All that filth mixed in with the grime and dust and refuse of a place that wasn't taken care of. It was just another shit hole, like all the others. The only difference, was that Marcus drank more there, because if they were there, there wasn't work. There was of course the doorway. One very distinct doorway, in the center of the house, that Marcus would always drag him to. He'd push Mercury against the old creaking wooden frame, and then he'd pull out the utility knife he kept in his left sleeve. With the coordination of a sober man, he'd knick a new notch in the doorway right above Mercury's head, and then Marcus would wander off, mumbling. For how raucously Marcus handled his life, every time they went to the house, he meticulously measured Mercury up to that wooden frame. Sometimes, when he was stuck in that house, he'd look over at that door frame, and all the little notches, wondering if he had really ever been that short before. It was a strange thing, and it would remain a strange thing for a long time. The method to this madness would appear at a much later date.

 

It was strange though, and as he grew, Mercury often caught himself thinking about it. Marcus showed no interest in anything else that was like normal development in his son. He did teach Mercury how to fight, how to swing and parry and how much cuts and bruises and broken bones hurt. Those were important lessons and they would be useful in the future. Marcus also taught him where to hit to make things hurt more, where to hit so that it wouldn't be visible, how to make a person scream, and where to poke when the deed just needed doing. Mercury actually did learn a lot from Marcus, around drunken stupors and bouts of vomit, and smelling like something that came out of the wrong end of a horse, but Marcus never had any interest in other things. He did slur words together from time to time to ask how old Mercury was, but Mercury stopped answering seriously long before Marcus started asking, so that was probably moot. Sometimes Mercury saw other children, with their parents watching over them. They were always close enough to snatch their kids away from danger, which they usually did when they smelt Marcus coming. Those parents seemed like they paid attention. They looked at their kids, and noticed when they fell, and bought them new clothes, and maybe left them at home with a nanny when they had to be away for work. Those parents treated their kids like gifts. But kids leave, they grow up and walk away, they aren't treasure you can polish and shine forever. When Mercury really thought about it, those people didn't make much sense at all. It was completely different for them.

 

Marcus didn't look at him that way. Probably because Marcus wasn't attached, and neither was Mercury. Losing was inevitable, the trick was not wanting in the first place, and he'd learned that there wasn't a whole lot worth wanting, or at least not seriously. Wanting something for the moment, that was fine. The momentary whims were good, because once they were satisfied, they'd go away. Satisfied, and discarded, it was that simple. Maybe, when he was young, he wanted something like what those other kids had, a father that didn't drink, a place to call home, someone who didn't hit or yell or murder for money, a mother. Maybe, but it was hard to say. Those kids were going to lose that, those parents were going to lose that. The more attached they were, the harder that would be on them. It just seemed so much easier to be unattached, to not give a damn, and it was. It was damn easy, to the point that Mercury knew that he was going to murder Marcus one day, and that'd be the end of it. It was a foregone conclusion, because another one of Marcus's lessons, was to take until there wasn't anything else worth taking. Use until there wasn't any need to. They both knew where that ended.

 

Mercury thought he understood all of those things, the disassociation, the sociopathic tendencies, the 'live for now and take what you want because that hollow feeling is how life works' lifestyle Marcus preached. He learned he was wrong the day they went back to that decrepit old house, and Marcus shoved him against the doorframe, and for the first time, there was no new mark to make. In dangerously steady words, Marcus asked how old he was. Usually, he'd rattle off some arbitrary nonsense, and be done with it. This time, Mercury didn't. He kept his mouth shut. He got a back hand for it, but he kept his mouth shut. Marcus was most serious on jobs, when the stakes were high. He slurred everything else. Something was wrong. Marcus then walked away, reaching for his phone, and mumbling numbers into it.

 

Mercury went hungry that night, which wasn't strange. What was strange, was that Marcus ate, and he didn't. In fact, Marcus kept the food away from him all together, and beat him when Mercury tried to force it. In the end Mercury decided it wasn't that important, and he went to bed hungry, still curious about what exactly had happened that afternoon.

 

He found out the next day, when Marcus came at him with a saw.

 

That day, Mercury literally learned what it meant, to be unattached.

 

He spent two weeks without anything below his thighs, and wanting to die. If Marcus had gotten within striking range, Mercury would have strangled him, the fever and the phantom pains be damned, but Marcus was too smart for that. And to be fair, Mercury had no strength to be crushing Marcus's windpipe, no matter how much he wanted to.

 

His legs hurt. Or, more accurately, what used to be legs, hurt. It didn't make any sense, but he couldn't just tell his brain that he didn't have anything below his thighs now, and so it shouldn't be hurting. It didn't work that way. It hurt, and it itched, and he couldn't relieve either of those things. He spent most of those two weeks with a fever, raving and screaming and cursing until his throat went horse.

 

He got his new legs after two weeks. They were new and shiny, and they made him taller than he had been before. At some point, he'd make comments about his super model legs, but at that moment, it had been the furthest thing from his mind. It took some time to adjust, to get used to the raw power of his new legs, but it wasn't nearly as hard as he had expected it would be. He already had all of the techniques down, now it was just about relearning.

 

At some point in his past, there might have been a time, likely when he was a small child, where he would have wanted his old legs back. He let the resentment and the hate fester while he'd been a cripple, because Marcus had been the one to take his legs away. With the new ones, that could keep running for days, and could block almost any attack, and didn't feel real pain, and that could do a plethora of amazing things, and that would take days to fix instead of months if they broke, Mercury found he didn't want his old ones back. He found that what his dad had been telling him for so long was true. He was gonna lose things, but they'd probably be better gone. Nothing was irreplaceable.

 

 


End file.
